


Permission To Mourn

by FactoryKat



Series: The Mages' Champion and the Healer's Hope - The Wyatt Hawke Collection [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Aveline Vallen is a Good Friend, Blood and Violence, Custom Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, Light Angst, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Mages and Templars, Post-Dragon Age II Quest - All That Remains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 00:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19121026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactoryKat/pseuds/FactoryKat
Summary: After Leandra's death, Hawke isn't handling it very well. In fact, his poor attempt at grieving takes a turn for the violent. Something that both worries and frustrates Anders and his friends.





	Permission To Mourn

Bronze fingers twitched, a leg shifted, and shoulders hunched forward. The ambiance within the Hanged Man was white noise to Wyatt. It was a distinct keening piercing his thoughts all-consuming. It drowned out even the voices of his companions as they cackled and guffawed, staging bets and engaging in light conversation. The metallic clink of coins drew his eyes to the growing pile in the center of the table, a glittering hoard fit for any dragon, but Wyatt Hawke’s heavy gaze continued past the gilded mound. Bright blue eyes darkened by grief darted this way and that as if deep dreaming in the waking world.

_I could have done something. Should have spent more time with Mother. If I hadn’t been so far up my Maker-damned ass, I could have seen it coming._

_This wasn’t supposed to happen._

_This city is poison, infected, and cursed, even._

_Damn it all._

Disquiet in his mind and turmoil, curling itself around his heart, etched a miserable frown on his tanned face and pulled his brows low as they knitted together in further evidence of his inner struggle.   
  
“Hawke?” Varric’s voice registered vaguely on the surface of his consciousness but escaped acknowledgment. He ignored it, ignored the elf’s questioning glances, ignored Aveline’s cautious hand on his shoulder.

Glassy, ghoulish eyes haunted him. They invaded his memories and plagued his dreams. Nausea crashed over him like a wave, and fury simmered in his gut like cinders. A single spark, that’s all it would take to stoke the flames. The acrid taste of bile crept up the back of his throat. His scowl deepened, and he clutched the cards in his hands tight enough to bend them.

“Listen, Hawke; you’re starting to give the elf there a run for his coin and-”

Wood screeched against wood as he stood up abruptly, the legs of the heavy chair scraping the floor of the upper-level suite. “I need some air.” Wyatt tossed his cards to the table with little regard for where they landed as he stormed down the stairs into the main room of the tavern. He paid no mind to the concerned protests of his companions, nor Aveline’s heavy steps behind him. His long stride carried him briskly past busy tables and mingling patrons. Edwina flitted from table to table, balancing several mugs and narrowly escaping a potential collision with the troubled mage.

In the whirlwind of voices within the tavern, a few stuck out like brilliant shining beacons. Wyatt slowed his gait and craned his neck to sweep across the length of the bar. He sucked in a sharp breath between clenched teeth and let his gaze settle on a gaggle of skirted cowards. The Templars frequented the Hanged Man almost as often as they found themselves in the Blooming Rose, so their presence wasn’t unusual. Seeing them with their faces bare and visible, twisted in inebriated laughter and jeers as they quipped and teased, was enough to make him stop. The banter amongst them rose above the cacophony of other sounds, so Wyatt had no choice but to listen. He heard them. He listened to every word of their flagrant abuses spat in disgust over their charges, innocents trapped beneath their bootheels. His hand twitched again while his body stood stock still, just listening while they prattled on completely unaware. One of them cast their eyes towards him briefly, and he found his motivation, whether warranted or not. The templar’s face went through a cycle of emotions as Wyatt stalked over with a tightly leashed fury. Hands found purchase on the templar’s breastplate and jerked him forward.

“Who-” came the man’s sudden cry as he found his back aggressively hitting the wall. “You! Fereldan  _dog_ -”

“Shut up.” Flames licked at his fingers as Wyatt drew one hand back threateningly. “You want to pick a fight with a mage? Try it with someone who can fight back!”   
  
“Oh shit-”

“Hey!” Another shout from behind drew his interest, and a gauntleted hand gripped his shoulder. Wyatt turned abruptly, right into a swing backed by muscle and steel. The fist connected squarely with his jaw, cutting across his face and leaving behind a red smear. A distinct wrongness crawled across his senses, his skin prickled and the hairs along the back of his neck stood at attention. Like snuffing out a candle, the flames rolling in his palm dispersed.

_Bastards!_

Wyatt’s mind reeled as he felt it - a stifling force settling over him - like someone throwing a heavy woolen blanket on his head. He knew it was the templars. Someone had cast dispel, temporarily robbing him of mana.

If that was how they wanted to play, fine, he wasn’t helpless without magic; his father had seen to that much growing up.

With quick reaction time, he ducked low and body-checked his assailant who had raised his sword at the ready. It was luck and skill that allowed him to avoid getting run through but not entirely unscathed. The templar’s state of drunkenness meant his balance was fragile and made it easy for the mage to send him stumbling back into two of his fellow men. With his back exposed, however, it meant the blonde-haired templar behind him now felt brave enough to strike.

“Hawke - behind you!” Aveline’s voice cut through the chaos, momentarily pulling him out of his rage-induced stupor. “ _Shit_.” She cursed, just as Hawke whipped his head up amidst the brawl.

Wyatt was sure Aveline’s intent wasn’t to distract, but it cost him focus, long enough for a third templar’s blade to skim his shoulder just as he turned his body right into the swing of another. The awkward angle was a blessing enough that he didn’t get immediately skewered by tempered steel and instead felt the sting of the blade just narrowly missing his eye, cutting from cheek through the brow. His right hand was already clutching at his weapon. It was only a small blade tucked away in his leathers, something he carried when carrying a staff openly wasn't wise. Blood seeped from the wound, forcing his eye shut and hindering his depth perception as the assault on all fronts continued.

“That's enough, Hawke!” And it was fortunate timing that Aveline stepped in. Wyatt found himself pulled forcefully from the group of templars who outnumbered him five to one.

“What in the Maker’s name was that about!?” Concern filled her voice, despite the hardness of her expression. Aveline's roles as both a friend and Captain of the Guard conflicted often, but they were the same at that moment.

Mood further soured by the ringing in his ears, Wyatt snorted. “Nothing.” His head felt too heavy to hold high in defiance, and the building pain in his temples was a good enough reminder of his failures that he didn’t need to hear it from her. “You didn’t have to interfere.”

“Didn’t I?” Her voice raised an octave, “And let you get your ass thoroughly stomped by those templars? Hawke, you’re not that stupid, nor am I. What’s going on?”  
  
When he pulled his fingers away from his forehead covered in scarlet, Aveline’s face softened. “Let’s go. You need to get those wounds taken care of.” She reached to inspect his chest where more blood pooled, but he pulled away grumbling.

“No. I don’t want to burden Anders. He already has enough to deal with and other patients more important than me. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re going, and that’s final. I will not have you bleed out here in some seedy bar. Not on my watch damn you.” Aveline took the initiative as she wrangled her friend out the door, playing deaf to his protests all the while.

-

Darktown was never pleasant to go traipsing through; between the countless refugees huddled together in dank corners, or the sickly sweet stench of rot and chokedamp, it made his stomach turn on a good day. When he was bruised and bleeding, feeling like he had been chewed up and spat back out by a Mabari, the journey went from merely unpleasant to pure torment. It was certainly effective in stirring the guilt roiling in his gut.

Despite Wyatt's vehement protests, Aveline refused to let go of the arm slung around her neck. She shared the burden of supporting him with Fenris, whose glowering face broadcasted his feelings on this inconvenience. The double doors to the clinic were open, and the brightly shining lanterns hanging on either side were an invitation.

_Maker dammit all._

Within, a small gathering of refugees stood about, their faces hopeful as they watched the famed Darktown healer work his literal and metaphorical magic on a young boy sat down in front of him.

“Hawke, not now, love. I’m -  _Andraste's flaming sword_! What happened?” He had not bothered to look up until he had finished with the young man.

Wyatt griped under his breath as the pair of warriors he called friends helped him to an empty cot. The blood was difficult to see in his dark red hair, already matted and sticking to his scalp and forehead, but it was easy to see on his tanned face. A smeared mess crossed his right eye, which he held shut tight, seemingly originating from a deep gash on his head. Another angry wound jutted across his lip and chin, and the blood seeping through his leathers across his right side didn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon, either.

Anders drew in a breath and apologized to the family he had been helping. Fortunately, they understood and gathered themselves to leave the new group in private. As Aveline stood back, hovering like a protective parent, her face was an all too familiar mask of both concern and disappointment that levied judgment against his actions.

“Honestly, Hawke, I don't know what's gotten into you!”

“Nothing, Aveline. I'm fine. It's _fine_.” Wyatt grumbled and (gently) tried swatting away the healer’s hands as he approached.

Anders studied him with much scrutiny and brushed gentle hands over deep lacerations and bruises already forming in other places. Wyatt knew he was in no immediate danger of bleeding out or otherwise succumbing to his injuries. Still, he wondered if his outward appearance reflected what he felt both physically and emotionally.

“You don't _look_  fine, my love…”

Wyatt huffed in a near-perfect impersonation of his hound, a fitting comparison for a displaced Fereldan. By this point, Fenris had already made himself scarce, with an indignant “Feh,” on his way out. Aveline, who appeared to be satisfied with her level of involvement, followed in pursuit not long after. It was down to just the two men. The mages.  _The lovers._

Anders cajoled him, firmly this time. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Hawke_ , please. I don’t have the patience for this game right now. You can either tell me, or I can ask Aveline. I’m sure she would be all too happy to explain and then somehow make it my fault.”

Hawke. 

Not Wyatt. 

He was in trouble.

A dull ache nested within his heart unbidden while long fingers clutched and pawed at his jaw, forcing his head this way and that. Hardly the usual tender bedside manner he was used to from Anders, but by the hard set of his jaw and the steel in his amber eyes, Wyatt knew better than to complain.

“Don’t worry about it,” he retorted coldly as a sour frown twisted his lips and tawny brows furrowed deeply. He squinted his left eye closed to match its twin when his partner turned away from him. Logical reasoning said Anders was fetching supplies, but when no response followed, a groan rolled out of Wyatt’s chest.

“I’m sorry. I don’t like bringing trouble to your door. You know that.” He forced sincerity into his voice, hoping it came across. "I - got into a fight. At the tavern.  _With some templars_ …"

Deafening silence answered him. His hands balled at his sides, where he sat, forming stiff fists.

"And-"

“Love,” despite cutting him off, Anders’s voice was a soft murmur again instead of a snappy retort but not without a hint of discontent. He opened his eye and leveled it cautiously on his partner. “You need to grieve. _Properly._  Not, whatever it is you’re doing.”  
  
Wyatt flinched as hands pushed tangled hair away from the wound on his head and pressed a damp cloth to his face. After washing away most of the blood, a spark of brilliant blue flashed between Anders’ fingers. The summoned healing energies immediately began weaving together tender flesh where it had split, and Wyatt’s chest expanded with a heavy exhale as he succumbed to the soothing sensation of magic washing over him. Any tension remaining in his rigid form subsided and allowed him to sink further into the cot. When hands planted themselves firmly on his shoulders, he stole a glimpse of Anders’ studying his face carefully.

He watched the lines of worry crease between his lover’s brows and panic bubbled up from his chest. “Hey-”

Nothing.

Alarm strained his voice. “Anders?”

“Yes? Oh. Apologies - you should be fine. No lasting damage. Can you open your eye for me, please?” The direct, clinical tone consistent with his role was natural - he was in healer mode right now, not that of a romantic partner, but such reasoning did little to abate the gnawing in his chest.

Still, he did as requested, and cautiously opened his right eye again. Once he blinked away the momentary haze, he found it to be as stated - just fine. Perhaps it was the remorse in his blue eyes that coaxed the tiniest of smiles from the morose healer, or maybe it was guilt by association that inspired it.

Anders pressed a feeble kiss into his brow and brushed it back with his thumb. “Good as new. I’m afraid it will leave a scar though, not much I can do about that.”

“Some men are into that, I hear,” Wyatt quipped, his grin roguish but hesitant.

The displacement of air that came with an exasperated exhale was not a foreign one. Hawke, between his lover and his brother, often heard his fair share of heavy sighs whenever he offered such ‘witty’ follow-ups. Saying nothing in response, Anders immediately started hastily pulling at his tunic and leathers, much to his confusion.   
  
“Well, if you wanted me to strip, you only had to ask.” He tried to inject a little more humor into the room, despite the clash between turmoil and anger fighting for dominance in his heart.

“I can’t very well assess your wounds over your clothes, love,” Anders muttered, tugging the blood-soaked pieces clean over his head. “And I don’t ever recall  _asking_.”

His eyes snapped upward, pulled to his lover's face just in time to see the slightest curl of lips before it vanished behind focused neutrality.

_Heh_.

"Well," came the healer's steady voice - not the partner, not the revolutionary - "it could be worse. You're quite lucky."

Wyatt craned his neck to one side to get a better look at what was happening. His eyes lingered on the top of Anders's head, messy blonde hair threatening to spill out of the red wrap keeping it at bay.

A chuckle of relief bubbled up from this throat, and he exhaled through his nose. Tingling warmth spread through his core, whether from the healing or the heartwarming reminder, and he let a hand come to rest on Anders's shoulder. His partner didn't stir until he finished, and the sensation of familiar magic washing over him receded.

"There. That should do it."

"Are you going to kiss that one too, then?" He goaded playfully.

There was a snort before Anders foisted his clothing upon him again and turned away to clean up.

"I'll take that as a  _no_ then." The gnawing jaws of uncertainty latched onto him again, and Wyatt felt a frown tugging at his lips. Defeat settled over him as he dressed, all while his partner silently busied himself with cleaning and reorganizing idly. The tension between them was palpable and discouraging.

"Anders, please-"

"You could have been seriously hurt, you know. Beyond my capabilities. Or worse - you could have been thrown in the g-" his voice cracked, slight and almost unnoticeable, but it did "-the gallows. Meredith herself could have stor-"

"I'm not a child! Of course, I know that" he interjected bitterly, face hot with awkward shame. Being scolded by right in the middle of the clinic - Anders's domain, not his - was a wildly new experience for Hawke.

The long, drawn-out sigh that followed made him shrink into the cot further. Nothing more was said on the matter as Anders turned back towards him and all but hauled him to his feet. "Go home, love. Drink some water and lie down. I've got some more work to do around here, and then I'll be in."

Confusion replaced everything he had been feeling without superseding the guilt, of course, and Wyatt protested as he scrambled to stand. "But-"

"Please don't. I'm telling you, as both as a healer and your partner, to go." There wasn't a _complete_ lack of warmth in his lover's voice, fortunately, but there was something - frustration perhaps? No, it wasn't so shallow and surface level. Of course, it wasn't that easy.

It never was with him.

-

The trek back up through the undercity, through the haze and frenzy Lowtown to the decadent sprawl of Hightown, was sobering enough that by the time he reached his doorstep, a dull throbbing had wormed its way into his head, settling uncomfortably behind his eyes. The intensity of the sun's glare as it loomed just on the cusp of the horizon didn't help matters either. Wyatt squinted fiercely and used a hand to shield his vision from the glow. His other turned the knob, the door giving way to the muted, shaded interior of his home.

"Good to see you, Messere!" Bodahn's mercifully cheerful greeting filtered into the foyer. Finn barked in excitement the moment he crossed into the main room of the estate.

"Mistress Amell _just_ returned from the market with Orana and asked me to remind you not to spoil your supper again." For a moment, his ears deceived him.

Wyatt expected to see his mother floating from the kitchen into the parlor, where she would settle into her chair by the fireplace with tea in hand. He heard her voice woefully clear,  _"Oh do stand up straight dear, you're a noble now,"_ correcting his slumped posture or his casual speech. They weren't refugees from some backwater country farm anymore; they were Amells after all.

But no matter how hard he squinted, her chair remained empty, the kitchen void of her gentle humming and the scent of her perfume no longer clung to the air in every room.

Bitter was the hard lump in his throat, threatening to choke him.

"Orana has just returned from the market and got right to work on supper!" Bodahn called again, the actual words reaching him this time.

A wordless nod was all he could offer the dwarf as he continued straight through the sitting room towards the staircase.

A waft of mint and astringent invaded his senses as soon as he reached the second floor and crossed into his bedroom. The recollection of his earlier reprimand from Anders came freshly to mind - of course, he had been stupid to let himself get pulled into that fight, but it felt good at the time. No, it still felt good, but at least he had the sense now to realize how easily it could have gone wrong. Wyatt padded across the throw rug towards the washroom and paused when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the tall, standing mirror. An antique, something his mother had bought for him immediately after they first moved in. She had insisted it was essential for a young nobleman always to look his best, for, at any time, he could cross paths with his future wife. She, of course, assumed he had any interest in women, especially any of the overstuffed nobles from Hightown. It only seemed to sink in for her when he had invited Anders to live with them.

Staring back at him from the looking glass was a weathered man, whose long red hair was a tangled, matted mess clinging to his neck and forehead with an unhealthy mixture of blood and sweat. His arms were a graveyard to the ghosts of countless other fights, battles both lost and won. Funny how a mage acquired so many scars, scrapes, and bruises. His jaw was peppered by the unseemly shadow of stubble too long neglected, and typically sharp blue eyes were tired, unfocused, glassy and ghoulish-

_NO-!_

It was a hair-trigger reaction as his fist flew and connected with the mirror’s surface. A sickening crunch followed as the glass cracked from the blow. Pain, white-hot, and snaking through his hand meant that he withdrew immediately, and regret was already on the tip of his tongue.

“Fucking - Maker’s breath, Wyatt, you absolute dolt - yes. Smash the mirror. Brilliant plan,” he muttered caustically to himself as he nursed his now bleeding knuckles.

Prompted perhaps by the ghastly memory, or the other factors in play, he recalled the date. He scanned the room with attentive eyes and spotted the calendar on his desk. The wake would be soon - only days now, wasn’t it? Shit. He couldn’t show up like this, Wyatt mused as he stared at his splintered reflection.

Would Carver be there? What would he think?

He could already hear his little brother’s biting criticisms, pulling a resentful chuckle from his chest.

His hand found his knife again and flipped his head over, upside down, turning his body just enough to glean his reflection in the mirror. He grasped at the dangling hair, pulling it taut while he hacked away at length with the blade. Dark red strands fluttered messily to the floor beneath and around his feet as he cut, shorter and shorter until his arm was too tired to continue. The expectation did not, unfortunately, match reality when he stood right-side up again and let the remainder of his mane fall into place. He hadn’t achieved nearly as much as he’d assumed, hair just grazing his chin in horribly uneven lengths.

“Well...” he snorted, discontent with his hack job.

“Evening Bodhan,” A voice echoed below following the heavy thud of the cellar door closing. Anders was home. Bohdan’s reply was almost too quiet to determine, but Wyatt could vaguely make out a few words, and the sound of footsteps padding up the carpeted staircase came soon after.

He hadn’t moved by the time they reached the door, and his partner’s hesitant greeting carried beyond the threshold. “Love? How are you-”

His face grew warm again with the familiar sense of shame, and he felt Anders’s eyes against his back. “Hey…”

“Andraste’s knickers, what happened now?” Alarm raised the tone of his voice as he approached, amber eyes widening as he studied the scene laid out before him.

Unbidden, Wyatt turned into Anders and grabbed him, pulling him tight against his chest while his arms closed fiercely around his partner’s waist. His face buried itself in the crook of the other man’s neck of its own accord. “I’m sorry. About earlier, about how I’ve been acting. All of it. Everything.”

Startled by the sudden affection, Anders’s body went rigid, but the tension eked out just as quickly. Wyatt felt a squeeze as arms wound themselves around him in return.

“Oh, love...” was all Anders said. Acceptance without really stating it. No “it’s okay” or “it's fine” because it wasn’t okay or fine. He pulled back, eyes darting from the mirror to his hand. A sigh passed through lips before they touched the split skin of his knuckles, and the smallest flicker of blue lapped at the healer’s thumb as they rubbed circles against them gingerly. A gentle warmth coursed through his fingers and hand before it subsided along with the glow. The only remaining sign of what happened was the cracked glass stained with his blood. How fitting.

He watched Anders’s blonde brows furrow while he reached out to inspect his poor attempt at a haircut. “I see now that I should know better than to leave you to your own devices for more than an hour. Come on,” he muttered, and grabbed the chair from the desk, dragging it to the center of their shared bedroom. “Sit,” he instructed curtly.

Wyatt looked on confused. “What?”

“Do you want me to help you fix it or not?”

Surprise pulled his brows up high, but he sat as instructed. “I didn’t take you for a barber.” A trickle of mirth found its way into his voice, a result of their warmer reunion and his lover’s tenderness relieving much of the lingering tension from earlier.

“Hardly. But I certainly had to learn a few things about personal upkeep while I was on the run from the circle, and in my time with the Wardens as well, I suppose.” Anders chuckled as he removed a set of sheers from a pouch at his side. “And I can tell you that while you surely made a good effort, a knife truly isn’t the best instrument to be cutting hair with.”

Anders began snipping away carefully, tugging at strands every so often, likely checking the length to ensure everything was even. Wyatt sat in reflective silence as more pieces fell around him bit by bit, like the crumbling pieces of his family. He screwed his eyes shut tight for a moment, forcing back the crushing melancholy that ate away at his steely confidence.

Eventually, the snickering of the scissors stopped suddenly, and a weight pressed on his shoulder: a hand - Anders.

“You don’t need anyone’s permission to mourn, love. Please. She wouldn’t want you tormenting yourself over this.” His tone was soft, reassuring even as if it had come from a place of knowing.

In a way, it did; though they hadn’t even spent any length of time speaking in-depth, there had been a time or two where they briefly conversed during his stay. Wyatt recalled the first time they met after sneaking in late; it had been following a lengthy game of Wicked Grace with the others. He had not expected his mother to be awake, but she had been in the parlor when they slipped in through the cellar door. She hadn’t appeared at all surprised when they stumbled in attempting to be quiet, but the three saucers of tea waiting for them had said enough.

He allowed the thoughts to brew a little longer but remained silent on the matter, only resting his hand on Anders’.

“Shorter,” Wyatt quipped after a minute more passed, ducking his head below the crack in the glass to accurately judge his lover's work. “On the sides there-” He gestured at the hair still loose around the sides of his head and temples. 

“Oh?” Anders questioned with curiosity in his voice now, but before he could go in with the clippers again, Wyatt stood up abruptly and dipped into the washroom.

He emerged a moment later with a straight blade in hand. “Here. Try this.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“What can I say, I’m a risk-taker.”

Anders’ snorted with a roll of his eyes. “Yes,  _I know_. Well, sit back down then.”

What else could Wyatt do but obey his lover’s beck and call, the man who he would do anything for, who trusted him with his heart? A smile pulled at his lips finally as he took his seat and passed him the razor. “It’ll be fine. Probably.”

“Your confidence is inspiring, love. Thanks.” He chuckled as Anders sighed.

The process took only a few more minutes. Once complete, Anders returned the razor to him before stepping away to wipe himself and his sheers clean of hair. Wyatt stood up, eager to see the results, and again fought with the broken mirror to steal a glance at himself. He raked a hand through the top of his newly shorn red locks, tousling them until they seemed content to stay.  A shrill whistle accompanied his verbal reaction, “Heh,” and he turned around to face his lover again, face hopeful for acceptance.

“Well,” Anders started, interest in his voice and approval in his warm eyes. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed to see it all go, but it suits you.”

Wyatt could feel the corners of his lips curling as he closed the distance between them, yanking Anders in with an arm cradled around his waist and against the small of his back. “Yeah? Am I unrecognizable now? A mysterious but handsome invader in your lover’s home?" He sized up the man in his arms, not unlike a predator, and darted in to nip at the soft skin along his neck, catching the tip of an earlobe on the edge of his teeth.

"You're ridiculous." Anders made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan as he squirmed vigorously to release himself from Wyatt, who struggled to keep hold of his partner, laughing right along.

The fight for dominance concluded after a while. The two men settled against one another as a solemn hush fell over the room.

Eventually, a quiet voice broke the silence. “Say you’ll go with me.”

An equally quiet reply followed, and Anders pulled his head back with a question in his amber eyes. Not for _what_  he said - but for the  _why_. “The service? Hawke, love, I don’t think - it’s not really my place.”

Wyatt let go, finally, but still held firmly to the healer’s merciful hands. “No, it’s fine. It’s - it’s just going to be small. Mostly us, Bodahn, Orana - I’m not sure if Carver will come, but I need you. Please.” He pleaded, more with his eyes than his voice.

He saw his partner wrestle with indecision at first but was relieved to see it give way to understanding when Anders relented, “Alright. If it’s important to you.”

Relief swam through his body, pushing him back into his lover’s chest and his arms found home again, wound tightly around the one person currently keeping him from falling apart at the seams...


End file.
